by Eugène Sue
“You are here among your companions of war, my brave champion,” Gaëlo answered him. “You have broken down a score of huge trees and demolished a house. Was that enough to limber up your strength? What do you still want?”
“Oh! Oh!” mumbled the giant, shaking his enormous head, and without ceasing to rub his eyes with his fists. “I am not at all surprised at having played such havoc. I began to feel myself berserk when I cried out, ‘To St. Denis!’ and all the time after I imagined myself demolishing the abbey and slaughtering the monks and their soldiers. I was trying to exterminate them all.”
“Do not be disappointed, my Hercules,” Gaëlo replied encouragingly. “The moon will rise early; we shall row all night; to-morrow evening we shall be at St. Denis, and day after to-morrow at Paris.”
CHAPTER V.
THE ABBEY OF ST. DENIS.
THE ABBEY OF St. Denis resembled a vast fortified castle. The high and thick walls that enclosed it, the only entrance through which was a vaulted gate, covered with heavy sheets of iron and, like the walls, pierced with narrow loop-holes through which the archers could reach the enemy with their arrows, rendered the place safe against any surprise. In order to take this fortress, large engines of war would be required and a powerful attacking force.
Agreeable to her promise made to Father Fultrade, Martha and her daughter Anne the Sweet found themselves towards nightfall at the trysting place named by the monk. He also was on time. He arrived on his large horse, an animal powerful enough to carry Eidiol’s wife on its crupper and in front of the saddle the young girl, whom the priest thus had an opportunity to hold in his arms. Despite its robust neck and haunches, the horse that bore the triple load could proceed only slowly along the ancient Roman route, which, connecting Paris with Amiens, led by the abbey of St. Denis. The nocturnal trip was long and made in silence. Martha, proud of finding herself riding at the crupper of a holy man, thought only of the relic whose divine influence was to preserve her as well as her daughter from all present and future ills. Anne had come with repugnance. The monk ever inspired her with a vague sense of fear. The night was dark; the route uncertain. When, as it happened from time to time, the horse seemed to take fright, the maid felt Fultrade tighten his hold upon her, and his hot breath smite her cheeks.
When, finally, the monk arrived with his two female traveling companions at the massive gate of the abbey, he knocked in a particular manner. The knock was speedily answered by the gleam of a lantern at the wicket; the wicket was then opened; a few words were exchanged in a low voice between the brother at the gate and Fultrade; the light went out; the ponderous door turned on its hinges, leaving a passage for the new arrivals, and then closed again when all three had entered.
Martha and her daughter stood in utter darkness. An invisible personage took charge of the priest’s horse and led it away. Fultrade then took the arm of Martha and whispered to her:
“Give your hand to your daughter, and both follow me. Your arrival here must be kept a profound secret.”
After descending a steep staircase, and following for a considerable time the windings of a vaulted passage-way, the monk stopped and groped for the orifice of the lock of a door, which he opened.
“Step in, my dear daughters in Christ,” said the monk; “you may wait for me here; in the meantime say your prayers.”
A few minutes later the door opened again, and returning without a light, as before, the monk said:
“Martha, you will first adore the relic; your daughter’s turn will come after you.”
“Oh! No!” cried Anne the Sweet in deep anxiety. “I will not remain alone here in the dark! No! I wish to remain near my mother!”
“My child, fear nothing,” said Martha reassuringly; “we are in a holy abbey, and besides, under the protection of Father Fultrade.”
“Moreover,” interjected the monk, “one is never alone when thinking of God. Your mother will be back shortly.”
“Mother, I will not leave you — I am afraid,” screamed the young girl.
It was in vain. Before Anne could find her mother in the dark to cling to her, the girl felt a vigorous hand staying her off. Martha was hurried out, and the door closed behind her and upon her daughter. More and more affrighted, Anne screamed aloud. In vain again. The steps of Fultrade and Martha receded. Soon all sound ceased, and a brooding darkness reigned around the helpless girl. A minute later the blood rushed to Anne’s heart. Distinctly she heard near her, as if groping about in the darkness, the respiration of one panting for breath. Immediately she felt herself seized by two vigorous arms and raised from the floor. The young girl strove to free herself and called aloud to her mother for help. The struggle was so violent and the girl’s outcry so loud that it at first drowned the sound of a rap at the door. But the rapping speedily became so vehement that it soon drowned the violent struggle within and a voice was heard uttering at the door some Latin words in a hurried tone and in accents of alarm. Anne felt herself immediately delivered from the close embrace that terrified her, and soon as released fell fainting to the floor. Someone passed by her, opened and double-locked the door in great hurry, and ran away precipitately.
While, aided by another monk, his accomplice, Fultrade was locking up Martha and her daughter in separate subterranean cells of the abbey where serfs and other culprits under the jurisdiction of the abbot were usually confined, a great commotion reigned in another quarter of the holy place. Monks, suddenly shaken from their slumbers, were running about under the arches of the cloister, with torches in their hands. In the center of one of the interior courtyards a score of horsemen were seen. The sweat that streamed down the steeds gave evidence of the length and precipitancy of a recent run. They had escorted to the abbey the Count of Paris, who, arriving from his city in hot haste, proceeded immediately to the apartment of Fortunat, the Abbot of St Denis. The prelate, a man of shapeless obesity and with his eyes still half closed with sleep, was hastily donning a long and warmly furred morning robe that one of his servants was helping him into. Other menials of the abbey were lighting the candles of two candelabra made of solid silver and placed upon a richly ornamented table. There was nothing more sumptuous than the abbot’s bedroom. Having finally put on his gown, the abbot rubbed his eyes, seated on the edge of his downy couch. Count Rothbert, who had been taken to the abbot, was impatiently demanding that Fultrade be called.
“Seigneur count, he has been sent for, but he was not in his cell,” answered the abbot’s chamberlain, who had accompanied the count to the abbot’s apartment and was followed by several of his fellow officials — the marshal, the equerry, the butler and other dignitaries of the abbey.
“Father Fultrade must be in church,” put in a voice, “he must have gone to early matins.”
“Unless he remained in Paris, where I ran across him this morning,” replied Rothbert. “Never was his presence more needed than here and now!”
“Count,” said the abbot gulping down a yawn, “none of my dear brothers in Christ sleep outside of the abbey, unless sent on a mission by me. Fultrade must surely have returned home this evening. Will you not please to communicate to me the cause of this night alarm?”
“I shall give you news of a nature to make you open wide your eyes and ears. The Northmans have reappeared at the mouth of the Seine. They are advancing upon Paris with a fleet of vessels!”
Despite his enormous corpulence, Abbot Fortunat bounded up from his bed. His triple chin shivered; his large red face was blanched; he clasped his hands in terror; his lips trembled convulsively; but his fear prevented him from articulating a single word. The other personages attached to the abbey looked, like himself, terror-stricken at the tidings brought by the count. Some moaned, others fell upon their knees and invoked the intercession of the Lord. All, the abbot included, who had finally found his voice, cried:
“Almighty God, have mercy upon us! Deliver us from these pagans! From these demons! Alack! Alack! What ills are about to afflict the servit
ors of your Church! What ravages! Our goods will be pillaged by these sacrilegious wretches! Oh, Lord! Deliver us from the Northmans! Command your angels to exterminate these pagans!”
In the midst of these exclamations Fultrade entered, at last. He looked cross and irritated. His face was inflamed.
“Come in, Fultrade,” the count called to him when he saw the monk appear at the threshold of the abbot’s apartment. “Come in; you are the only man of thought and action in this place;” and turning to the abbot, whose whimpering annoyed him, the count added: “Fortunat, quit your lamentations! The hour calls for action, not for whines!”
The monks repressed their moans with difficulty, while the Count of Paris, addressing Fultrade in particular, said:
“The moments are precious — the Northmans have appeared at the mouth of the Seine. They are said to be under the command of one of their most intrepid sea-kings, named Rolf. Their fleet is so numerous that it covers the whole width of the mouth of the river. They can not now be further away than ten or twelve leagues from here. The means to repel them must be considered.”
“And how comes it that we have not been apprised of the arrival of these accursed men?” inquired Fultrade in a rage. “They have passed Rouen. How comes it that the people of that city did not spread the alarm? There is treason in this!”
“Oh! What do the people of Rouen care about the arrival of the pirates? Not having been this time themselves attacked by the Northmans, they do not concern themselves about the rest of the provinces. It was only this evening that I was notified by some messengers of the seigneurs and abbots, whose lands border on the Seine, that the Northmans were here. They furthermore informed me that the vile rustic plebs, which has nothing to lose, shows itself everywhere happy at the thought of the ills that these pagans will inflict upon the Church and the seigneurs. It is for us, accordingly, for us seigneurs and clergy, to join hands and defend one another! We need not look for help from Charles the Simple, who will think of nothing but the defence of his own royal domain, if he be capable of even that. He will allow the Northmans to plunder us to their hearts’ content.”
“Alack! Alack!” resumed the Abbot of St. Denis with a fresh outburst of moans. “What direful calamities are again in store for us! — Did we not see Charles the Bald grant the country of Chartres to that execrable Hastain! to that chieftain of Northman pirates! to that vile revolted serf! to that bandit, soiled with all crimes and abominable sacrileges! Alack! — What horrible times these are in which we live! — What shall we do, Oh, Lord! — What else can we do but invoke your holy name!”
“What we are to do? — It is plain! We must rely upon ourselves alone! Organize ourselves for our own defence; arm our colonists and our towns-people; and lead them out, under pain of death, to do battle with the Northman! — You, Fultrade, are a man of energy and intelligence. Immediately take horse and ride at full gallop with some of my officers and a good escort, to summon in my name the bishops and abbots of my duchy of France to arm their serfs and towns-men. A portion of these men is to be left in the abbeys and castles as a garrison, the others are to be marched to Paris in small detachments, to defend the Commune.”
“Count, what are you thinking of!” exclaimed the abbot, raising his hands to heaven. “At so dangerous a moment, would you send Father Fultrade from my side!”
“You need not be afraid,” answered Rothbert. “Before leaving Paris I issued orders to one hundred of my men at arms to march hither at the double quick, in order to defend this post which dominates the Seine.”
“Alack!” murmured the abbot, breaking out in tears. “Already, five times has this abbey been invaded, sacked and pillaged by these pagans. Although the place has been surrounded by new fortifications, it never could resist the Northmans! Alack! The thickest walls crumble down before these demons! We are lost!”
“Fear is deranging your mind, Fortunat. I tell you again that nothing short of a regular siege will take the place. My hundred soldiers will suffice for the defence against these Northmans. And, now, Fultrade, to horse! If you succeed in your mission you will receive from me a rich bishopric in reward.”
The monk had until then looked troubled and given but scant attention to the words of the count. The moment, however, that he heard an abbey promised to him his eyes brightened and his forehead smoothed. With sparkling eyes he answered:
“Seigneur, if our holy abbot allows me, I shall carry out his orders and yours. May heaven protect me! I trust I may be able to carry your commission to a successful issue.”
At this point one of the count’s officers entered, saying:
“Agreeable to your orders, several archers whom our riders brought on the cruppers of their horses were posted on the river bank. By the light of the moon they noticed a large vessel ascending the Seine. They compelled the sailors to land, threatening them, in case of refusal, to treat them to a volley of arrows. The master of the vessel is being brought in.”
“Have him come here immediately,” answered Rothbert; and turning to the abbot he explained: “I have issued orders to allow no vessel to pass without questioning the skippers. They may be able to furnish us with some information on the fleet of the pirates; they may have picked up something.”
The master who was forthwith introduced was Eidiol, the dean of the Skippers’ Guild, who had been so brutally treated by the count on that very day. Assuming a look of surprise, mingled with cordiality, Rothbert said to Eidiol:
“I did not expect to see you quite so soon again, my trusty skipper!” and waving his hand towards the aged man, he said to the abbot: “This man is the dean of the honorable Skippers’ and Mariners’ Guild of Paris.”
Greatly astonished at the cordial and respectful reception that he now received at the hand of Rothbert, who, that very forenoon had treated him with so much contempt, Eidiol looked suspiciously at the count and sought to explain to himself the cause of so sudden a change in his favor. As to Fultrade, the monk at first seemed nailed to the floor with stupefaction at the sight of the father of Anne the Sweet, but speedily recovering his self-control, said to Rothbert:
“Time presses. I shall depart instantly on the mission that you have charged me with.”
“Make it clear to the seigneurs and the abbots that we can not choose but win, provided we act concertedly.”
The monk vanished, and redoubling his affability toward Eidiol, Rothbert resumed: “Be welcome, my trusty skipper. You could not possibly have arrived at a more opportune moment. Your advice will be useful to us.”
“Your archers must, no doubt, have thought so, seeing they threatened to let fly a volley of arrows at us if our vessel did not promptly land where they ordered.”
“Such severe measures are unavoidable at this moment, my worthy skipper. No doubt you have heard the news? The Northmans have reappeared at the mouth of the Seine.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Eidiol with perfect indifference. “It is the Northmans, is it? Yes, I have learned of their approach. I even know, from the master of a lighter that was pulling up the river, that the pirates’ fleet dropped anchor this evening near the isle of Oissel, one of their former and favorite rendezvous.”
“By the sword of my great father, Rothbert the Strong!” cried Rothbert, stupefied and indignant at the unconcern of the skipper with regard to the invasion of the Northman pirates. “This upsets me! What do you mean by such a display of apathy at the prospect of the terrible ills that are about to fall over our heads?!”
“Oh, I am by no means unconcerned touching the arrival of the pirates. Instead of descending the river as far as St. Audoin, whither I was taking a cargo, I am now ascending the river to return to Paris, where I thought my presence might be needed.”
“That is right, my brave skipper! I was mistaken. You were not indifferent but calm, like all brave people in sight of danger.”
“To speak truly, I can not see wherein lies the danger.”
“Are you not fleeing before the approach of th
ose pagans?”
“No, I am not fleeing. I am returning to Paris to embrace my wife and daughter. And I am all the happier about it, seeing I did not expect to be with them again until to-morrow evening. I meant, after that, to take council with my compères upon what to do.”
“And who are your compères?”
“Why, of course, the deans of the other guilds of the city of Paris — of the blacksmiths, carpenters, armorers, weavers, curriers, stone-cutters, and others.”
“Of course, the purpose of such a council is to organize the defense of Paris against the pirates! Glory to you, my towns-men! I feel proud of numbering such stalwarts as yourselves in my city!”
“Blessed be they who defend the Church! All their sins will be remitted!” put in the abbot who, until now overwhelmed with grief and fear, seemed to gather some hope from the words of the count.
“Oh!” repeated Rothbert, pointing proudly at Eidiol, “at the head of such men, we shall be invincible!”
“And yet,” replied the aged skipper, “only this forenoon, you were ordering your knights to break their lances upon our backs!”
Rothbert bit his lips, puckered his brow, and answered with embarrassment:
“You must excuse an accidental outburst of excitement.”
“Your present glorifications contrast singularly with the insolent words that you bestowed upon me this forenoon.”
“Fortunat,” rejoined the count, turning to the abbot and with difficulty suppressing his anger: “This good fellow loves to banter. I think, however, he should choose his time better. We must run to arms, not joke, when these accursed Northmans threaten our peace.”
“Well! well! They are not so deserving of curses, after all,” remarked Eidiol, smiling with nonchalance. “Thanks to these very Northmans, you are now treating me with civility and courting my friendship. The noble is flattering the villein!”
“Quit your raillery, old man!” commanded Rothbert, relapsing, despite himself, into his wonted haughty and violent temper.
